


First Winter

by chamyl



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Banter, Blow Jobs, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Praise Kink (Good Omens), Domestic, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Sex, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Humor, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Kissing, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Making Love, Masturbation, Mentions of Light Bondage, Morning Sex, New Relationship, New Year's Eve, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Porn with Feelings, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Post-Canon, Praise Kink, Romance, Smut, Tenderness, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, fucking your demon into the new year, occasional d/s undertones, shout out to AJ for dubbing porny fluff COTTON CANDY, that's exactly what this is, zero percent angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:48:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22217293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chamyl/pseuds/chamyl
Summary: Vignettes from their first winter holiday together.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 84
Kudos: 603
Collections: Ixnael’s Recommendations





	1. Crowley

**Author's Note:**

> So! When I posted [Contrappasso](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21046388), several people said they would have liked more of this 0% angst content. It’s been a moment, what with the holidays and the new year and all that noise. Thought it’d be nice to start the year off right with some chicken soup in fic form.
> 
> This is based off of [drawlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drawlight/)’s advent prompts, you can check out the beautiful, beautiful calendar [here](https://drawlight.tumblr.com/post/188869931294/aziraphale-crowley-for-half-an-hour-youve-been).
> 
> And yes, I am late. I was about to trash the whole thing several times but then I told myself porn has no expiration date. Right? Right.

To be completely honest, he expected Aziraphale to be a little more observant than this. And yet, even though the angel enthusiastically praised him for the house he chose to rent for their first winter holiday together – and that was _really_ nice, and all those compliments gave Crowley all sort of complicated feelings – there is one detail the angel missed.

Aziraphale cooed all over the adorable little kitchen, gasped at the sight of the big, comfortable bathtub, ran his fingers along the edge of the large fireplace in the living room. He even commented on how ridiculously quaint the white brick house looks from the outside, half-buried in snow, with its cute red shutters and little trees all around. However, he didn’t spare a single glance for the little bouquet hanging by the front door.

Crowley ‘casually’ puts himself right under the **_mistletoe_** several times while they settle in, hands shoved deep inside his pockets, an awkward request sitting heavy on his tongue. A simple wish that somehow feels too big to let it slip past the safe confines of his lips. After all, they’ve only been together- _together_ for a couple of months now, and he’s still unsure about many things.

So he stands there, under the mistletoe. He clears his throat. He taps his foot against the floor. Nothing happens. Aziraphale doesn’t seem to notice.

Later on, when the angel has settled down by the fire with one of his books, Crowley decides it’s time to give up. He drops on the couch next to Aziraphale, sprawling as he always does. The angel immediately puts away the book, turns to him, gently grabs his chin between thumb and forefinger, and leans close.

“My dear,” he says, with a smile so fond it makes Crowley’s face burn all the way to his ears, “I hope you do know you don’t need an excuse.”

It’s nothing but a gentle brush of lips against lips, and yet Crowley melts into the couch, muttering something that he means to be ‘ _of course’_ or ‘ _sure’_ or ‘ _yeah’_ and ends up sounding like no word at all. He doesn’t get along with words at the best of times – surely he can’t be expected to form coherent sentences with Aziraphale’s solid body pressed against his side, with the angel’s warm breath tickling his lips, with a strong, soft hand running through his hair, sending shivers down his spine. In no time at all, he forgets about the mistletoe and why he ever thought he needed it at all.

* * *

“Why not go too?” Aziraphale asks, making Crowley jump from his sunny spot by the window. The demon has been watching children play in the **_snow_** for half an hour now – and it really does look like tremendous fun.

“I don’t _play_ anything except poker or blackjack, angel,” Crowley replies rolling his eyes, trying to make it sound so obvious he can’t believe he’d have to say it aloud, “you know that”.

Aziraphale gives him a sceptical eyebrow raise and goes to put on his coat, gloves, hat and scarf. He walks out the front door and Crowley watches him – the angel struggles a bit at first, then gets the hang of it – as he slowly begins to build a cute little snowman. It’s tall and lanky, and Aziraphale finds two flat, round, black stones to use for its eyes. Then the angel draws angry eyebrows on its forehead, so his snowman sort of starts resembling—

“That looks nothing like me!” Crowley protests, as he runs outside to join him in the snow.

Aziraphale tilts his head to the side, considering his little masterpiece. “Oh, I rather think he does.”

“I’ll show you,” the demon replies, quickly starting to make his own snowman. Slightly shorter and plumper than Aziraphale’s, with a bit of yellow hay for hair and two red berries for cheeks.

He turns to the angel with a satisfied smirk on his face, expecting to have annoyed him a bit, but Aziraphale responds with a little mischievous grin of his own. With a snap of his fingers, the angel makes the two snowmen glide towards each other, until they’re standing side by side, the twisted twigs they have for fingers touching.

Crowley throws his hands up in the air as he quickly stalks back inside, hopefully before Aziraphale can notice he’s blushing for _two stupid bloody snowmen holding hands_ of all things, but he’s pretty sure he hears a soft giggle behind him as he shakes the snow off his shoes.

* * *

The thing is, it’s not easy to get used to the full force of an angel’s love. Particularly when said angel had to hold back his love for God knows how many years and is now finally, finally allowed to let it out, free and unrestrained.

Crowley was sure Aziraphale was going to be bored, holed up with him in a small house in a little village on top of a mountain, so he bought them tickets to Tchaikovsky’s **_Nutcracker_**. And, indeed, the angel seemed happy enough to take the long car ride to the city to have dinner with him and then watch ballet.

But, when they get to the restaurant, Aziraphale spends most of his time looking at Crowley rather than paying attention at his fancy food. He’s bubbly and giddy and he can’t stop talking, and even feeds the demon from his own spoon when he insists his panna cotta is just too scrummy. _Really, Crowley, to die for, try a bite, here you go dear_ and, for all his squirming, Crowley doesn’t manage to dodge, opens his mouth, lets Aziraphale feed him and swallows without even tasting anything. To do this, out in the open, where anyone could see – well. It’s good. It’s great. But it’s an adjustment.

Later that night, in the theatre, rather than focusing on the show, Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hand, squeezes it every so often, runs his thumb over the demon’s knuckles, and doesn’t let him go until the show is over and he needs to clap for the performers.

As they drive back home, Crowley realises he remembers nothing of what he ate or what he saw in the theatre. But hey, that’s alright. He feels like he’s spent the whole night wrapped in a thick, warm fog, and the simple truth is – he doesn’t even mind, not even a little bit.

* * *

“For me?” Crowley asks, incredulous, putting down the fresh bread and the paper bag full of mandarins he brought back from his walk in the village.

“Well, in theory, yes…” Aziraphale mumbles, flour up to his elbows, the small kitchen around him a disaster of dirty bowls and sticky utensils, “as you can clearly surmise, it didn’t quite work out as expected.”

Crowley takes a step closer. “What was it supposed to be?”

“White chocolate and **_cranberry_** muffins,” Aziraphale sighs. “Oh dear, I’m sorry, I will try again, and next ti—”

He doesn’t get to finish that sentence, because Crowley has cornered him against the counter, cupped his face in his hands and kissed him. He had to, otherwise – he might not have been able to stop himself from saying something incredibly soppy to express how grateful he feels.

Aziraphale’s mouth tastes sweet and tart, and Crowley smiles into the kiss, realising the angel has been sampling both the chocolate and the cranberries. Muffins. _For him_! What a thought. The most he received from anyone in the last six thousand years was a commendation for something horrible the humans did. Nobody has ever… nobody until Aziraphale has ever even thought about making something specifically for him.

Oh, he’s in deep waters, he’s in way over his head. He’s a demon in love, and isn’t that an absurd concept? He’s completely, absolutely fucked, and he adores it, can’t bring himself to worry about it. Won over by kisses and snowmen and muffins, who would have known? He’s never thought of himself as _domestic_ of all things – but maybe he needs to seriously revaluate.

For now, what he’ll do is push Aziraphale to sit on the counter, kiss him soft and tender and then harder, deeper, thanking him without words, until the angel is panting and his lips are swollen and red. And then he’ll sneak a hand inside Aziraphale’s trousers and stroke him off right there, laying kisses along the angel’s neck, throat, jaw, until the angel shivers apart in his arms. Because Aziraphale deserves it – because Crowley needs it, because if he doesn’t let out how he feels in some sort of way he’ll implode, and talking about it is out of the question.

He takes his hand out of Aziraphale’s trousers and runs his tongue along one of his long, wet fingers, a sight that makes Aziraphale whimper and look away – then glance back at him immediately. Crowley grins, and Aziraphale kisses the cocky smile off his face.

* * *

He pauses, Aziraphale’s cock throbbing in his mouth, and gives the angel’s open thighs a meaningful little squeeze.

“Really, Crowley, I’m—it’s…” Crowley runs his tongue over the sensitive head, and Aziraphale smothers a moan against the back of a hand. “Ah, alright, fine…”

The angel picks his book back up, just like Crowley asked him to, and keeps reading – or at least pretends he does, his fingers clutching at the cover, his grip so tight his knuckles turn pale. Crowley gives a little satisfied sound, happy to get what he wanted, and keeps working on him.

Oh, but Satan help him—he could spend forever with his face between Aziraphale’s legs. The **_fire_** burning behind him, the soft carpet under his bare knees and the angel almost fully dressed, like a perfectly normal man who’s trying to read his book – if it wasn’t for a demon’s hollowed cheeks around his cock, if it wasn’t for the delicious little noises Aziraphale is so bad at stifling. If it wasn’t for the fact that, only halfway through the second chapter, the angel can’t hold back anymore, tosses the book aside, and sinks his fingers into Crowley’s hair, earning an appreciative noise from the demon as his whole body tenses and then releases into his lover’s mouth.

While Crowley works Aziraphale through his orgasm, he reaches between his own legs, finally allows himself to wrap his fingers around his aching cock, and it’s only three or four smooth strokes before he comes into his own palm. He rests his forehead on the couch, panting – and Aziraphale runs his fingers through his short hair, and Crowley wants to stay there for a thousand years, wouldn’t even move at all if it wasn’t for a fussy angel who insists they get clean and in bed. Ah, well – Crowley couldn’t, in all honesty, say he minds Aziraphale wrapping an arm around his waist from behind, pulling him close, leaving little lazy kisses on the back of his neck until he’s fast asleep, warm and safe.

* * *

In Crowley’s humble opinion, the decorative sleigh outside the village café is more than a little gaudy, fire engine red and complete with plastic reindeers and clanking little bells. However, a bunch of children seem to be having a lovely time running around and over it, so he shrugs it off as him and Aziraphale walk by.

All of a sudden, the angel stops, frowns, and Crowley follows his worried gaze – and immediately spots what’s wrong. A little girl, crying, pushed around by the older kids who won’t let her on the sleigh.

“Hey!” Before he knows it, Crowley has made his way to the group of children. “Let her climb on the sleigh too, you little hooligans.”

He feels a certain satisfaction as he watches the kids apologise in a hurry and scatter – it’s been a while since he used his old nanny voice, and it’s nice to see it’s still very effective.

Once they’re alone, he looks down at the little girl, the only one who hasn’t left. “Go ahead. S’all yours now.”

But the child doesn’t climb. Instead, she reaches up with her tiny hand towards his. Crowley groans, rolls his eyes, and when he’s done with all his perfunctory protests he takes her hand, helps her up, and climbs on the sleigh with her. The seat creaks under his weight, and the **_sleigh bells_** shake and chime.

“Happy now?” He groans, and the little girl nods. He sighs, and just then – he hears an alarmingly familiar clicking sound. His head snaps towards Aziraphale, and of course – the angel is standing there with a big, stupid smile on his face, his brand new phone in his hands. Having, apparently, just learned how to use the camera to take a picture.

* * *

Crowley wakes up having drooled all over his pillow, his mouth open and dry, his eyelids heavy with sleep. What time is it? He opens his eyes and sees only darkness. It’s a completely calm, **_silent night_** , not a ray of moonlight to disturb him, not a single car engine rumbling in the distance. He settles back down happily, then stretches out both his arms.

His fist bumps into something and an alarmed, offended noise next to him startles him so badly he almost falls off the bed.

“Crowley! That hurt!”

The demon scrambles to turn on a light, somehow half-asleep and panicked at the same time.

“Aziraphale?” He asks, dumbly. “What are you doing here?”

“What do you mean?” The angel blinks as he rubs the offended cheek. “This is my bed too!”

“Oh,” Crowley replies, quickly hiding behind his back the hand that accidentally hit Aziraphale in the face, “right. I… uh. I guess I forgot for a moment.”

Aziraphale sighs, rolling his eyes, “let’s just go back to sleep, shall we?”

Crowley nods, turning the light off again.

Right. Of course. They share a bed now. They’ve been sharing a bed for a couple months already. Not that Aziraphale comes to sleep every night, but when he does, he will obviously slip in right next to Crowley. It _is_ his rightful place. Where else would he go? Of course. Right.

And yet, after sleeping and waking up alone for however many thousands years – since he first learned to sleep, actually – it is nothing short of a miracle for Crowley to hear, in the dark, Aziraphale breathing right next to him. To be allowed – and even encouraged – to slowly inch closer, put his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder, reach up with one hand to stroke the angel’s soft little curls in place of an apology.

It takes Crowley a while to fall asleep again. His heart keeps doing funny little flips in his chest every time Aziraphale snores or reflexively squeezes Crowley closer to himself.

He smiles as he sinks into sleep. Well – many things will never be the same again. Sleeping is just one of them.

* * *

He really thought Aziraphale hadn’t noticed. Is it his fault? Is it his fault that the angel had to go and get a taste for the little mont blanc tarts that can be found at the local pastry shop? Is it his fault that Aziraphale started getting one every single day? No, it isn’t. At some point, Crowley just _had to_ try one, didn’t he? So, one afternoon, he reached out with his spoon and stole a bite. No big deal.

Except… well, except that he liked it. Except that he liked it _a lot_. The **_chestnut_** and the cream and the excessive amount of sugar—oh, he _loved_ it. He’s kept his sweet tooth a secret for ages, and immediately decided this was not the moment for this private inclination of his to come to light.

What he hadn’t expected was for Aziraphale to sit down, one day, and order _two_ tarts. One for himself, and one for Crowley.

The angel pushes the little mont blanc towards him, the corner of his mouth quirked in a little knowing smirk.

“For you,” he says. Crowley doesn’t move, a snake caught in the headlights.

“Oh, really now,” the angel sighs, doing again that thing where he feeds the demon from his own spoon. Crowley’s face burns to the point he’s afraid it might start smoking, but he opens his mouth all the same. The sugar melts on his tongue, and Aziraphale smiles. “I must say, I never thought I’d have to teach a demon to enjoy himself.”

There’s something playful in his voice, something a little mischievous, and—well, something definitely inappropriate for a public place. He’s not talking about the mont blanc anymore, is he now?

* * *

It’d be a little hard to explain to Aziraphale that the renter has asked him not to go down into the basement, and therefore Crowley absolutely had to go and snoop around. It’d be complicated to explain that he miracled the lock on the door open, and explored until a velvet curtain caught his eye, and that underneath he found a standing piano that just begged to be played again.

It’d also be a little hard to explain to Aziraphale that he doesn’t _actually_ know how to play, he just remembers how major and minor chords work on a piano and that’s more than enough to mutter along to a few songs he learned in the 80s.

Finally, it’d be a little hard to explain that he was expecting Aziraphale’s bubbly bath to last a lot longer, and that’s why he jumped a little, his fingers stumbling on the white and black keys producing an ugly noise, when he heard the angel’s steps behind his back.

So, instead of trying to explain at all, he asks, “uh… any favourite songs?”

“Well…” Aziraphale replies, fussing with his bowtie, “we weren’t actually allowed, as angels, to sing at all. Or to play an instrument, for that matter. Or to dance.”

“Right,” Crowley says, grinning now. “So, any favourite songs?”

Aziraphale purses his lips and sits down next to him. “If I tell you, will you play it?” He asks, a finger running along the edge of a white key without pressing down.

“Uh, not sure I’ll know it,” Crowley pulls his phone out of his pocket, unlocking it in one swift movement, “but I can look it up.”

Aziraphale takes the phone from his hands and starts typing something – not without some difficulty. “How do you—oh, okay, but how do I delete—I see, yes, oh… here we go.”

“Is it something from the last century, angel?” Crowley sighs as he gets his phone back, then blinks at the Aziraphale’s search results. “‘The Rainbow Connection’, really?”

“It’s from 1979!” Aziraphale protests.

“Yeah, that wasn’t…” Crowley looks at the angel, who’s wringing his hands and staring down at his own knees, one leg already poised to stand up. “You know what? Fine. Why not.”

He knows how the song goes, and he can read the words and chords on the screen of his phone, so he starts playing and humming along in the simplest possible way. It takes Aziraphale a few minutes to join him, shyly at first, then gaining more confidence with every line, until they’re properly singing together.

A little **_choir_** of two, down in a dusty basement with an old piano, and yet Crowley thinks he might have never seen Aziraphale’s eyes shine with glee like they are now.

_I've heard it too many times to ignore it_

_It's something that I'm supposed to be,_

_Someday we'll find it_

_The rainbow connection,_

_The lovers, the dreamers and me._

* * *

What colour is Aziraphale’s hair, even? Crowley feels like he’s spent the last six thousand years looking at him out the corner of his eye, through dark shades, never able to let his gaze linger.

But now they’re free, and he can look at Aziraphale all he wants, and he’ll take every chance he can get.

When they walk outside together, and the snow is white and bright and the sun reflects off the snowy mountains around them, Aziraphale’s air looks like delicate silver clouds.

When they’re inside, under the neon lamp, he would say Aziraphale’s hair is, somehow, **_silver and gold_** at the same time.

In the light of the sunset, when the shadows grow long and dark and the angel sighs happily over a cup of tea and a book, he looks impossibly precious, his hair like spun gold.

In the end, Crowley decides he can’t decide. He’ll just have to keep looking at him, possibly forever.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, seems to know perfectly well what colour Crowley’s hair is, and that colour is _lovely_. He tells the demon as much when they’re in bed together, and Aziraphale is a little flushed, a little breathless, pulling at Crowley’s hair while the demon’s mouth makes his way down his body.

“Lovely,” he moans, and tugs Crowley’s hair in a way that leaves no doubt what he’s talking about, “lovely. Absolutely lovely.”

* * *

It really shouldn’t be this hard. It’s just chopping wood, for somebody’s sake.

A drop of sweat runs from his forehead to the tip of his nose. If only Aziraphale wasn’t standing there watching him, he could miracle the piece of **_pine_** into smaller bits, but since the angel has insisted on coming outside with him to ‘see if he needs help with anything’, now Crowley has to do this the human way.

He swings down the axe and it gets stuck in the wood – for the twelfth time in a row. He holds the piece of wood down with a foot and tries to pull the axe back, and when it finally releases he almost hits himself in the face with it. His shoulders hurt like hell, he’s breathing hard, and he hasn’t successfully chopped a single piece yet.

Aziraphale puts a gentle hand on his shoulder. “My dear, may I—”

Crowley gives up with a frustrated sigh, shoving the axe handle in the angel’s hands and taking a step back.

Aziraphale looks down at his target, raises his arms, and swings down, the axe cutting through the wood like a hot knife sliding through a piece of butter. The angel repositions the piece of wood and strikes again. And again. And again. And, in a few minutes, they have all the wood they’ll need for the night.

Crowley’s jaw has dropped open, his mouth suddenly exceptionally dry, his jeans inappropriately tighter than they were a moment ago.

“Right,” he croaks out, stumbling on his own feet as he steps forward. “I can—you’re… let me. I’ll get those inside.”

He hastily grabs all the wood Aziraphale has cut and scuttles back into the house, trying to hide his burning cheeks behind his black wool scarf.

* * *

The trouble with Aziraphale – really, there’s more than one – is that he absolutely _loves_ carollers, while Crowley has asked himself more than once whether he was responsible for this particularly hellish tradition. There has to be something demonic about **_carolling_** , which really is just people coming to your door uninvited to sing to you the same old Christmas songs, sometimes even out of tune.

And it’s so awkward. What, are you supposed to just stand there? And then what, give them money or something? No way.

The third time he spots carollers making their way to their house he launches himself to the front door before Aziraphale can get there.

“Who’s there?” The angel asks when the doorbell rings.

“Nobody,” Crowley lies, badly.

“Surely it can’t be _nobody_ that ringed the doorbell, my dear.” Aziraphale goes to open the door and Crowley resigns himself to be nudged out of the way with a frustrated sigh.

So, these carollers in particular aren’t that terrible after all. Still, he stares at them unimpressed behind his dark glasses.

Aziraphale, on the other hand… oh, come on, this is unfair. He’s so overwhelmingly delighted at this dumb human tradition. He smiles like the sun itself and his eyes shimmer with joy. He’s always beautiful, but even more so when he’s passionate about something – that’s when he really shines.

Crowley rolls his eye behind his glasses and groans at his own thoughts.

“Oh, come on now,” Aziraphale chides, gently, “it’s not so bad.”

“Yeah,” Crowley feels his lips slowly curling into a smile despite himself, “I suppose it isn’t.”

* * *

Ten YouTube tutorials later, Crowley is no closer to figuring out how to wrap the stupid thing. He knows how to wrap a rectangular box, a cylinder, even a bloody pyramid. But how do you wrap something that’s soft, and shifts around while you’re trying to put paper around it? Something like, say, a godawful tartan scarf that he saw and immediately thought Aziraphale would love?

He figured this’d be easy. He’d wrap it up, but a bow on top, leave it somewhere the angel would find it, and he’d be done. He was so very, very wrong.

He doesn’t bother hiding the mess when Aziraphale walks by to refill his cup of tea.

“Oh dear,” he says, putting down the cup and sitting down on the floor next to Crowley and his small array of wasted **_wrapping paper_** , scissors, and tape. “What happened here?”

Crowley clenches his jaw, picks up the scarf and shoves it in Aziraphale’s face. “There. Take it. I don’t want to look at it a second longer.”

Aziraphale grabs the scarf and squeezes it gently, his fingers sinking into the soft fabric. “Oh… a present for me?”

“Not really, is it?” Crowley snarls. “It isn’t even wrapped. It’s just a scarf.”

“Well,” Aziraphale replies, and Crowley can see in his eyes the spark before the storm. The angel just had an idea.

Indeed, Aziraphale shifts closer and puts the scarf around Crowley’s neck. He looks at him in the eyes, unfortunately bare of sunglasses, as he ties the scarf into a bow right under Crowley’s chin.

“There. Perfect.” He smiles, pulling gently on the bow to make the demon lean closer.

“But it’s tart—” Crowley’s protests are smothered by a kiss, and then another, and then another.

At any rate, he forgets altogether the scarf is tartan when Aziraphale, later that night, uses it to tie his hands to the headboard and hold him down while he makes the rest of his world fall away.

* * *

Sure, they didn’t _have to_ get shit-faced on **_eggnog_** , but they did anyway. It’s one of those easy nights where they can chat for hours and laugh and talk about nothing of consequence until morning. It’s cold outside but it’s warm by the fire, and the eggnog was sweet and rich and went down a little bit too quickly.

Crowley can feel himself getting clingier by the second. At first, it was just moving to sit closer to Aziraphale. Then it was a touch on the angel’s arm. Then, he found and held Aziraphale’s hand in his own. Then he snuggled closer, his face against the side of Aziraphale’s neck – breathing in his smell. So calming, so nice.

Laughter turns to silence, silence turns to a variety of sounds when, contrary to Crowley’s expectations, Aziraphale doesn’t push him away but holds him closer instead, kisses his lips, slides his hand underneath the demon’s jacket on his shoulders and tugs it off and down his arms.

They slip down from the sofa onto the soft carpet, make love right there. Aziraphale kisses his temple, his cheekbone, his jawline. Crowley’s head spins in the best of ways and he gives himself over, holding nothing back. There’s one thing he’s careful about – pulling a pillow down from the couch and putting it under Aziraphale’s head, so that he can be comfortable even on the floor.

The angel giggles, slides his hands down Crowley’s bare back, grabs him roughly by the arse in a way that makes the demon want to beg – _please, please, I’m yours,_ _you must know I’m yours_.

* * *

A person standing just outside the village grocery store would see two completely human-looking ethereal beings walk out side by side. The onlooker would notice that the tall, lanky guy with fiery red hair is laughing so hard he’s wiping back a tear and that his companion, an old-fashioned blond bloke, is pulling at his arm.

“Crowley!” He cries out, looking back towards the store as he quickens his pace. “Please…”

The one named Crowley bellows with **_laughter_** , “I can’t believe you!”

“Crowley,” insists the other gentleman, tugging on his arm, “I really didn’t mean to do that!”

“That makes it better, doesn’t it?” Crowley’s mirth seems impossible to dampen – until he sees the expression on his friend’s face. “Oh, come on, angel, she had it coming and you know that.”

“Still,” Angel replies, “I did not want—”

“Look,” Crowley interrupts, touching Angel’s hand on his arm, “her trolley has been bumping into you the whole time we were there, I saw it. She deserved it.”

“Regardless,” the blond replies, “I only meant to swerve her away from my poor feet. I—I didn’t know she was going to stumble and…”

“And end up face first in the fish counter?” Crowley starts laughing all over again. “Oh, that was something.”

“Crowley, stop…” Angel protests weakly.

“And the way you did it so casually, too, as if it was nothing?” Crowley is now lifting his glasses with a knuckle so he can wipe away a tear, “Ah, shit, I love you.”

The onlooker would see the blond man stumbling on his feet and the other continuing on, noticing only a few steps ahead that he left his friend behind.

“Are you alright?” Crowley asks.

“I—yes, yes. Perfectly fine. Thank you. Um,” the man stutters, “do you—did you mean…”

“What?” Crowley asks, looking back at the store. “It’ll be fine, angel. Don’t worry about it too much. Reckon they’ve already cleaned everything up.”

“Ah, yes, right. Of course.” Angel clears his throat, then takes the other’s hand, interlacing their fingers. He sounds much more sombre when he speaks again. “Crowley?”

Crowley straightens up, staring down at their joined hands, a confused frown on his face. “Yes?”

“I love you too.”

Crowley opens and closes his mouth several times around a long string of guttural sounds and random vowels. Angel beams at him and at all his little non-words.

“Let’s go home,” Angel says and Crowley, completely red in the face, nods and swallows. They walk away without another word spoken aloud, holding hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [amazingly talented Kyra Kupetsky](https://twitter.com/KyraKupetsky) did a FUCKING ADORABLE drawing of this last scene, you can see it [here in this hilarious set](https://twitter.com/KyraKupetsky/status/1219110384725942273). I love it so much I'll never be over it 💞


	2. Aziraphale

Aziraphale watches the sunrise, serene and content as only a being that doesn’t ever need to sleep could be. It’s always quite the show.

When enough sunlight reaches the small house on the mountain, he realises everything has frozen over. There’s been a big **_ice storm_** during the night, and the world outside looks sharp and hard and beautiful. But also, rather too cold for him.

_Oh well_ , he thinks, _I’ll just stay inside, where it’s cosy and warm._

And then – he remembers. The Bentley is outside. It must be covered in ice right now.

He hesitates for a moment. Does it even matter? Crowley would get rid of the ice in a snap. Oh, but he feels so bad, sitting here while the demon’s still in bed, sleeping peacefully, completely unaware of the state of his prized possession.

Aziraphale sighs. Well. He’ll have to try and make it a quick thing.

He stands in front of the Bentley and wonders – would Crowley _really_ fix everything with a snap of his fingers? Or would he insist it needs to be done the human way? The demon is always so unpredictable when it comes to this car. Sometimes he’ll treat it like his best friend. Sometimes he’ll drive it like a madman and bump into everything and anything.

Aziraphale resigns himself to be better safe than sorry and comes back a few minutes later, wearing rubber gloves and carrying a bucket full of a water and alcohol solution. At least, he’s pretty sure that’s how it’s done. Isn’t it? And if it isn’t, how is he supposed to know otherwise? The last thing Heaven would provide him with is a crash course on taking ice off expensive cars.

He thinks he might have got it right when he dips a soft sponge in the bucket and, rubbing it against the door of the car, he sees the ice getting a little thinner. Well. That’s going to take a while.

His mind drifts off to the plot of a mystery novel he’s reading, and he barely realises time is passing – what _is_ time to an ethereal being, anyway? – as he works on the Bentley.

When he’s done, he notices one last smudge right in the centre of the hood and leans over to get it out of the way. As he does, he hears the front door closing and Crowley’s muffled steps in the snow.

“Gift for me?” Crowley says to his posterior, and Aziraphale can hear the grin in his voice.

The angel quickly stands back up, tugging his coat down over his backside before turning around.

“You old serpent,” he replies, and can’t quite help smiling back at him, “a simple ‘thank you’ would have sufficed.”

“Ah, but…” Crowley kisses his cold lips, pulling him closer, “angel, you forgot a very important detail.”

Aziraphale tries to glance back at the Bentley, but the demon’s holding him and not letting go now. “W-what is it?”

“You took such good care of my car,” Crowley smiles, openly, genuinely, and it’s such a rare sight Aziraphale finds himself transfixed as he looks back at him, “I’m going to start thinking you like how I drive, after all.”

Aziraphale raises his pointer finger to the demon’s nose, and tries – and fails – to keep a straight face as he replies. “That is absolutely not the case.”

* * *

Aziraphale watches Crowley set up a small Christmas tree with both eyebrows raised. Not that he has anything in particular against the concept of Christmas trees – and the demon for once looks downright adorable, so busy with something inoffensive. And yet. He’s known his hereditary enemy and new lover for six thousand years now. He can tell when something is up.

Crowley drapes the string lights among the branches, hangs delicate glass balls, adds star shaped **_ornaments_** all along the height of the tree.

And then, when he’s done, he pulls out an angel he’s insisted on buying as a tree topper. Aziraphale rolls his eyes. That particular tradition he doesn’t like so much, but he can deal with it. Except, just as he’s putting the angel up, Crowley grins and changes its hair from blonde to white, its eyes from black to blue.

“And what exactly do you think you’re doing?” Aziraphale asks, pursing his lips.

“Decorating our Christmas tree?” Crowley shrugs, turning back towards the tree, “Thought you wouldn’t have a problem being on top.

Aziraphale scratches his cheek. “What do you mean?”

“What do you think?” The demon replies with a small smirk.

The angel contemplates the question while Crowley gathers in his arms all the empty boxes the ornaments came in. Just as the demon is leaving, Aziraphale has an epiphany.

“Oh—this isn’t about last night, is it?” He calls behind him. Crowley is already in the other room, but the angel hears him barking out a short laugh.

Oh, that foul fiend.

Aziraphale loves him so much.

* * *

“You could have stayed home,” Aziraphale tells Crowley, who’s been grumbling for the past half an hour. “I had no expectations you’d come.”

_“I had no expectations you’d come,”_ Crowley replies, mockingly, hugging himself tight against the cold.

This is what happened: they were accosted by one of the village women for a little charity project. They needed people to make biscuits and sell them during the Sunday morning market. So, Aziraphale is currently manning one of the stands with the perfect, fancy biscuits he’s miracled into existence, and Crowley is currently whining about the whole ordeal.

He’s trying his best, though, Aziraphale can tell. He’s approaching passer-byes and asking them if they want to buy some. When they ask what kind of biscuits are they, Crowley loses his already scarce patience. “What do you care? They’re for charity, for somebody’s sake!”

A little giggle next to him makes Aziraphale turn around.

“Ah, Anna, isn’t it?” He asks.

The woman in the stand next to him extends a hand, shaking Aziraphale’s fingers energetically, her black curls and the pom-poms on top of her hat shaking with it.

“Sorry for laughing about your husband,” she says, in a heavily accented English, “but he’s being very good!”

“He is,” Aziraphale agrees, smiling. Then, he blinks. “Ah, h-husband?”

“Isn’t he?” Anna glances at Crowley, still arguing with some unfortunate souls, and giggles again. “I apologise, I didn’t mean to assume. I thought that someone who stands here in this freezing cold, selling **_cookies_** , grumbling the whole time but doing it anyway had to be a husband. See, mine’s over there, doing the same.”

And indeed, she points towards a very big man with a scarily deep frown who’s currently trying to talk some old ladies into buying his wife’s badly hand-knitted socks.

“No… you’re right.” Aziraphale replies slowly. He glances back at Crowley, his heart full, and smiles. “He is. My husband.”

“Thought so,” Anna chirps, stealing a cookie while Aziraphale is looking the other way.

* * *

It’s not particularly late when they drive home after dinner, but the winter days are short and it’s already pitch-dark out. So far from the city, it feels like they can see every single star.

Aziraphale is watching the sky – to distract himself from Crowley’s terrible driving – and jumps in his seat a bit when he sees a falling star.

“Did you see that?” Crowley asks, just before Aziraphale can say the same.

“Yes!” He exclaims. “Oh, Crowley… I think humans make a **_wish_** when they see a falling star, don’t they?”

“Right, yes. And they don’t say it aloud, I think,” the demon replies.

“Let’s each think of one,” the angel proposes, thoroughly charmed by this little human tradition.

Except, when Aziraphale focuses and tries to think of something he wants… he comes up empty. He’s free, now, and that was the big thing. And he hasn’t Fallen, so he likes to think he’s still loved by the Almighty. He has Crowley by his side, beautiful and wonderful and a joy to be around every single day. He has his bookshop, but he’s free to travel, see the world, do whatever he likes.

“Can’t think of anything, can you?” The demon asks, quietly, after a while.

Aziraphale smiles. “Not a thing. What about you?”

A muscle tightens in Crowley’s jaw. Aziraphale can tell he’s trying to avoid showing too much emotion on that sharp, lovely face of his.

Crowley shrugs his shoulders. “Not a single one.”

* * *

Aziraphale had to convince Crowley to come with him to the winter petting zoo – and he’s starting to think the demon was right to be worried. The animals seem to sense his hellish nature and act out whenever he walks by.

They’re getting close to a **_reindeer_** – the star of the zoo – when Aziraphale spots Anna in the crowd, along with her husband and two little children in tow. He blinks for a moment, wondering for the first time whether it’s weird for two adults like him and Crowley – who are totally, absolutely human, nothing to see here – to go to a petting zoo without any children tagging along.

Oh well. Too late now.

Anna says hi and shows him the latest scarf she’s made – acid green and neon pink, with little tassels all around. Which Aziraphale finds frankly horrifying. However, he has the presence of mind to find something to compliment about it, saying nobody could possibly get lost in the snow wearing that scarf. They chat closely for a few minutes about how the charity sale went and how their ‘husbands’ were so very useful.

They’re interrupted by the reindeer making a startled, angry noise, and Aziraphale immediately turns around to put a hand on Crowley’s chest, shielding him. Obviously, the demon doesn’t need to be protected, but it comes naturally to Aziraphale.

Then he scolds the reindeer.

“Listen, dear creature,” he brings his finger up to the animal’s snout, “my husband here has done nothing to hurt you, so I insist you try to be a little more polite than this, are we clear?”

Of course, the reindeer doesn’t answer, but blinks slowly at the angel’s face before turning around and ignoring them altogether.

They leave soon after, and Crowley is silent for most of the way home. At one point, he stops, looks at the angel, looks away again, and asks, “so… _husband_ , huh?”

Aziraphale brings a hand over his mouth. “Oh, oh I’m sorry Crowley, I didn’t—I didn’t even think to ask if it was alright for you, it just seemed easier, and also quite appropriate at this point, so I—”

“It’s fine,” Crowley cuts him off, taking his hand as he starts to walk again. He’s acting casual as usual, but Aziraphale can’t help but notice he sounds quite choked up when he speaks again, “s’fine. I’ll get used to it.”

* * *

“Yes, that’s about it,” Anna concludes.

The other two women sitting at the table of the tearoom with her and Aziraphale nod along.

“Well, thank you very much for all your helpful advice,” Aziraphale says. He rather thinks he let himself be kept from his favourite pastimes – namely, Crowley and his books – for way too long, but maybe this has actually been somewhat useful. “I shall take my leave, then. Thank you, and please do enjoy the rest of your afternoon.”

He smiles and waves at the three women as he stands up and walks away.

The topic of their conversation was as follows: it’s very hard to get a **_gift_** for someone who has everything. However, Aziraphale wanted to give Crowley something back after he got him that lovely tartan scarf, surely fighting with his own demonic fashion sense all along. The angel told his new friends that his Crowley is very, very well off, and therefore it is quite hard to ever buy him a present. Which, really, is not too far from the truth.

Anna and her friends all agreed: he’d have to try and get him something vintage, something one of a kind. But also something readily available in the village, which complicates matters.

And what’s vintage, one of a kind, and readily available?

A few hours later, when Crowley wakes up from his nap on the couch, Aziraphale calls him upstairs. The angel feels absolutely, thoroughly, entirely silly, lying on his stomach, naked in their bed, with candles all around and a thin strip of black velvet around his neck. He’s tied into a little bow which he hopes is both tasteful and significant.

Yes, he’s the present.

He tries for a seductive smile but feels it wobbling on his face in embarrassment. The door is swinging open and oh Lord, this was an awful idea, what was he even thinking? How did he even—

And then he sees Crowley’s expression. His mouth dropping open, his bare yellow eyes wide, his cheeks flushing as desire blooms all over his face. And he doesn’t feel stupid anymore, not even a little.

* * *

When he wakes up in the morning, there’s a weight over his chest. Crowley. Crowley is the weight. The demon is lying belly up, with his back over part of Aziraphale’s body, a leg draped between the angel’s knees. It’s not uncomfortable, Aziraphale has to admit, and Crowley’s **_warmth_** is extremely pleasant, but he worries a bit for the unnatural curve of his lover’s spine.

Still, Crowley sleeps peacefully, the back of his head over Aziraphale’s shoulder, so it can’t be that bad. Aziraphale runs his hand along the demon’s side, up and down, over the soft material of his pyjamas. Crowley mutters something in his sleep and shifts even closer, melting under the touch of Aziraphale’s hand.

The angel keeps stroking him gently, until Crowley’s fingers close around his wrist and guide his hand farther down, into his underwear, over his half-hard cock.

Aziraphale nudges him higher up so he can reach around him more easily, then continues his slow, lazy movements, while Crowley goes even more boneless over him, spreads his legs wider, tugs his bottoms and boxers down on his thighs.

If Crowley was snoring softly, then became silent upon waking up and grabbing Aziraphale’s hand, now he’s making noises again, low and short at first and then longer, louder, from calm to aroused to desperate when Aziraphale insists on keeping the same pace all along.

When Crowley comes, it’s with a long, full body shiver that goes on and on and on, and Aziraphale works him through it, drinking in every single sound he makes, until Crowley’s fingers around his wrist squeeze, asking to be let go.

“Good morning,” Aziraphale smiles, nuzzling behind Crowley’s ear.

The demon twists around to be able to kiss him on the lips, uncaring of all the mess. He’ll miracle it away when it’s time to, but Aziraphale suspect they’ll keep going for a while.

Crowley smirks and bites into his own lower lip, an eyebrow raised. He looks so tempting, so beautiful – but, more importantly, radiant. Happy.

“Good morning, angel.”

* * *

“Crowley, there’s someone in front of our house again, looking in,” Aziraphale says, pulling back the curtains.

“Uh, do we care?” Crowley replies, tapping away on his phone.

Aziraphale clears his throat.

“Yup, we care,” the demon adds. He sighs and stretches as he hops off the couch. “Fine, let’s go check what they want, shall we?”

As soon as they see them walking out, the group of children – Aziraphale is bad at estimating human ages, but he would say they’re between twelve and fourteen – turn to look at them.

“Hello,” Aziraphale starts, with a big smile, “is there anything I can help you with?”

The kids look at one another, then one of them declares, “we’ve heard some voices.”

Aziraphale and Crowley look at each other, then back at the children. “What have you heard?” The angel asks.

“That your house is haunted,” the boy replies.

“Oh,” Aziraphale giggles. “I can assure you it isn’t. Why would it be?”

“My mother says,” the kid insists, “that strange noises can be heard at night.”

“Strange noises at ni—” Crowley starts. “ _Uh_.”

Aziraphale realises what they’re talking about at the same time as Crowley does.

“She was laughing,” the boy continues, “and I don’t understand why. **_Ghosts_** are no laughing matter.”

“L-like I said,” Aziraphale tries to push through, “no ghosts here. Not a one. You can tell your mother that.”

Very quickly, he turns on his heels and heads back inside, with Crowley by his side.

“We need to learn to be quieter, Crowley,” he says. “Very much quieter.”

Crowley replies with a noise that doesn’t sound like any word in any human language they’ve ever heard.

* * *

“We don’t have to do it—”

“No no, we should do it,” Aziraphale insists, “it’s what humans do.”

“Plenty of things humans do that we carefully avoid, angel,” Crowley points out. “I don’t see how this is different.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, twirling the pen in his direction, “when one goes on a holiday, one writes **_holiday cards_**. It’s what one does.”

“Not me,” the demon replies, but gives up and slouches in his chair. “’sides, who are we even writing to?”

It had not occurred to Aziraphale to think of a recipient. “Uhm,” he says, eloquently. “Who do we know the home address of?”

“Nobody?” Crowley replies.

“We must know _somebody’s_ address,” the angel sighs, then realises he knows at least one’s address off the top of his head. “Oh, yes, we do! Adam’s!”

“So what,” Crowley asks, “you’re just going to send him a card after months of radio silence to tell him we’re on a holiday?”

“Yes!” Aziraphale replies, enthusiastically, as he starts writing. “Dear Adam…”

A few days later Adam’s mother will find an unusual holiday card in the mail, addressed to her son. It has a funny-looking snowman surrounded by presents on the front and, inside, a very elegant, old-fashioned handwriting wishes him very happy holidays and a great new year. And then it looks like someone took a red pen and drew little angels and demons in the margins. And a dog, too.

Hm. How weird.

* * *

Spending a night in watching a movie was Crowley’s idea, but he let Aziraphale pick from the DVDs they found in the house. Aziraphale found something that looked vaguely Shakespearian, by the title of Romeo + Juliet, and decided to go with that. Can’t go wrong with the classics. Besides, it seems to be a **_love_** story.

Except, when they reach the scene where Romeo and Juliet first meet, and Leonardo di Caprio watches Claire Danes with her little white angel wings through the fish tank, unable to reach out and touch her but completely enamoured… Aziraphale hears Crowley sniffle.

“Are you… my dear, are you crying?”

“No,” Crowley replies, a bit too quickly. “I told you, I don’t even like the gloomy ones.”

Aziraphale lets him have that, but drapes an arm over his shoulder and pulls him closer.

* * *

They stand a little farther from the crowd, on a good spot from which they can see the entire valley below without too many trees in the way.

Crowley bought them two big cups of hot apple **_cider_** , which help a bit against the biting cold. Aziraphale wraps his fingers around the comforting warmth of his cup, and Crowley wraps an arm around his shoulders.

When the fireworks show starts, the angel gives a little _ooh_ of wonder. He’s seen them many times before, but they’re always spectacular, these amazing human creations. Taking fire to make something beautiful and magnificent, how delightful is that? And even more so tonight, when the night sky is completely clear of clouds and, when he turns to look at Crowley, the demon’s face is relaxed and open like Aziraphale hasn’t seen him in a very long time.

Certain things you only see under the light of fireworks. Aziraphale doesn’t tell him again how much he loves him, but it’s all there, in the kiss he presses against Crowley’s cheek, in the white puff of warm breath in the freezing air when he exhales against the demon’s skin, in the way he closes his eyes to let himself really _feel_ this moment, missing the fireworks for something much more important.

* * *

He has to admit, this was a pretty great idea, he can’t believe Crowley had to talk him into it. Aziraphale relaxes back into the hot water with a pleasured sigh, the **_champagne_** in his glass swirling dangerously close to the edge.

Crowley is sitting outside the tub, the sleeve of his shirt pushed back over his elbow.

“Chocolate?” He asks.

“Oh, please,” Aziraphale replies, and the demon picks up a chocolate and brings it to the angel’s lips. Aziraphale makes a pleased little noise as he swallows. “Oh, you wily old tempter, this is positively sinful.”

“Yeah?” Crowley grins as he gets another chocolate from the box. “Good to know I haven’t lost my touch.”

“You haven’t,” Aziraphale murmurs as he’s fed another chocolate. He wraps his fingers delicately around the demon’s slender wrist, kisses the pads of his fingers. Noticing Crowley’s soft out-breath, he pushes a finger between his lips, closes his mouth around it. He caresses it with his tongue, humming at the very different taste. The chocolate was creamy and sweet, the demon’s finger tastes like something that is uniquely Crowley and that he couldn’t possibly describe with words.

When he looks up, he sees Crowley’s glasses have slipped a little, uncovering his eyes, and that he has his demon’s undivided attention. He takes his time sucking on Crowley’s fingers, one by one, slowly, until the demon is squirming on the stool he’s sitting on.

When he’s done, Aziraphale kisses the centre of his palm, looking at him for a long moment. Crowley’s lips are parted, his eyes half-closed already. His other hand is clenched into a fist on his knee and his legs are uncharacteristically crossed.

Aziraphale decides to never break eye contact as his lips slide on Crowley’s smooth skin, kissing the beating pulse on his wrist, feeling it quickening against his mouth. The angel slowly tugs up Crowley’s arm to keep kissing along the length of it, until the demon’s breathing is faster and louder, echoing though the white and black bathroom.

His gorgeous, sweet, patient Crowley. Who tries to act tough and cool at all times but is so wonderfully easy to fluster. Aziraphale blinks and the demon’s clothes vanish, reappearing perfectly folded on a chair in the bedroom.

He runs damp fingers along the curve of Crowley’s throat, up towards his chin, holds him there for a moment, watching as every second spent looking into his eyes makes the demon’s skin grow warmer and redder, the blush spreading down his neck.

When he reaches down, Aziraphale knows he’ll find him already hard, and already a little wet at the head. And, indeed, when he closes his fingers around Crowley’s cock, the demon is only a few strokes away from being done, even though he’s been completely untouched this far.

The corner of Aziraphale’s mouth quirks into a smile, fond and happy and just a little bit cocky. His Crowley, much more vulnerable to sweet, tender touches and intimate glances than he would ever be to a practiced mouth or a confident hand. His Crowley, absolutely perfect for him.

* * *

“Oh, just stop the car!” He exclaims, and Crowley slams on the brakes so hard Aziraphale almost hits his face against the dashboard. “Thank you very much.”

Crowley raises his arms in frustration. “Great, so now we’re in the middle of nowhere, with no idea where to go.”

“Yes, I am aware,” Aziraphale replies, “and we wouldn’t be lost if you had taken the turn where I told you—”

“That was wrong! We would be even more lost if I listened to you!”

“Oh, good grief. Just—check on your phone, will you?”

Crowley groans and pulls out his phone, then steps out of the car muttering that he has no reception in here. Aziraphale follows him. He looks around, but doesn’t recognise the street, or the mountain to his left, or the wood to his right. Where in the world are they?

Crowley dips back into the car to get a map, tossing his useless phone somewhere inside. When Aziraphale steps closer to take a look, Crowley turns the other way, keeping the map to himself.

“Oh, you can’t be serious,” Aziraphale whines, but Crowley has taken a few, long strides away from him.

The angel looks at his back, then down at the snow all around them. He crouches. He picks up some snow. He forms a ball. He stands up. He tosses the **_snowball_** and hits Crowley right on his left shoulder.

“Did you just—” Crowley folds his glasses and puts them away in the pocket of his jacket as he looks down at his shoulder and back at Aziraphale. Slowly, he begins to grin. “I hope you don’t think you could win against a demon, angel.”

Oh no, now Crowley’s picking up snow too. Aziraphale didn’t think this through. Thankfully, he’s fast enough to dodge the snowball tossed in his direction, and when he throws next he barely misses the Bentley.

“You did _not_ just almost hit the car,” Crowley gasps, horrified.

Half an hour later, they shiver as they sit back inside, wet in all the places the snowballs landed. Crowley turns on the heating and looks at him. Aziraphale, a bit hesitantly, smiles. Crowley snorts, which makes Aziraphale giggle. And then they both start laughing, so hard Aziraphale has to take a deep breath to try and stop.

“Come on,” Crowley says, starting the car, “I think I know where to go.”

* * *

Aziraphale can’t help but squirm, despite trusting Crowley to have the steadiest possible hand and also, generally speaking, good taste. It’s just, well—the demon has _such_ a different idea of what _stylish_ means. Besides, Aziraphale is not adverse to a little pampering, or to a transparent layer of nail polish on his fastidiously manicured nails. But, when he agreed to let Crowley experiment on his face, he was imagining a green tea mask, maybe a bit of chapstick. He was not expecting Crowley to pull out actual make-up and start wondering what kind of colour goes better with the blue-green of his eyes.

He lasts five whole minutes before apologising and pushing Crowley’s hand away. “I’m sorry, I don’t—I just want to…”

“Go ahead, angel,” Crowley sighs. “I was done anyway.”

With some apprehension, Aziraphale rushes to the nearest mirror. He holds his breath as he looks in, and… oh. Hm. Has… has Crowley even done anything?

He looks closer. Oh, right. He sees it now. A thin line of **_glitter_** , the colour of champagne, right along his upper eyelashes. Nothing else – nothing visible, at least. And… it looks quite nice.

“That’s delightful, Crowley,” he says, wringing his hands, feeling quite silly for running away now.

But Crowley just walks by and drops a kiss on the very top of his nose. “Anytime.”

* * *

In a very secret notebook that he keeps hidden among his things, Aziraphale writes:

_ New year’s **resolutions** for the year ~~6024~~ 2020 _

  * _Be kinder to all creatures big and small_
  * _Be more patient_
  * _~~Learn to drive~~_
  * _Learn to use the portable telephone properly ~~~~_
  * _Take more pictures! ~~~~_
  * _Make sure Crowley is happy at all times_
  * _Go on a summer holiday_
  * _~~Learn to do those things Crowley does with his tongue?~~_



* * *

And old radio, in the hallway outside the bedroom, transmits a staticky broadcast of some random show. Someone’s talking about how it’s only a few minutes to midnight – a few minutes to the new year.

“Ah, just a little more, my dear…” Aziraphale coos, and Crowley, beneath him, writhes in pleasure and frustration.

“I-I can’t, angel, I…”

“Just a few minutes more? For me?” The angel asks, licking a hot strip along the demon’s throat.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Crowley groans, rolling his hips and biting into the back of his own hand, “you’ve already—three times, you—”

“Yes,” Aziraphale agrees, brushing Crowley’s damp hair back and away from his forehead. “and it was wonderful, and I am so very thankful. But I would like you to hold on until the new year.”

Crowley tries to steady his breath, closes his eyes, twists the sheets under his fingers.

“That’s it, darling, just a little more—ah, do you hear it?”

The chatting on the radio show has turned into a chant. A countdown, actually. Aziraphale counts along with them.

“Five… four… three…” he kisses the corner of Crowley’s lips, “two… one…”

Crowley comes with a sob at the stroke of midnight, sinking his nails into Aziraphale’s back, right between his shoulder blades, his body rocking throughout his orgasm. The angel smiles, holding him close, delighting in his pleasure as if it was his own.

As they lie in each other’s arms, Crowley breathing heavily and Aziraphale stroking his cheek, both of them grinning, the radio welcomes the New Year playing, as is tradition, **_Auld Lang Syne_**.


End file.
